‘I told you before, I wanted your birthday to be special for you. Something you’d always remember.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
It was Sunday morning and marriage was very much on Venetia’s mind, as it had been during the night when a kaleidoscope of memories flitted through her dreams. It was the fault of that chat with Nina over lunch yesterday that had raised the spectre of the three men to whom she’d been married, and with varying degrees of happiness.
Looking back on her life, no one was more surprised than Venetia that she’d been married so many times. It certainly wasn’t how she’d imagined her life. But then who really did have the life they expected or hoped for? Not Nina, that much was obvious. Cassie too could not have pictured the way her life was turning out. Temporarily sharing her home with her ex-husband’s widow and child could not have ever featured in her wildest imaginings.
With the radio on and listening to Classic FM, Venetia was doing her ironing. It was one of those tasks she enjoyed, pressing out all the wrinkles and creases of her clothes and bed linen, resulting in a satisfyingly satin-smooth finish. Every now and then she would look up from the ironing board and watch Cassie’s daughter, Emily, playing on the lawn with her half-brother – they seemed to be having a game of chase that involved a lot of running around in circles. She could recall doing the very same thing as a child. Observing Emily and the boy, it struck Venetiathat they looked like they didn’t have a care in the world, which given the circumstances couldn’t be true. Just as yesterday, there was no sign of the boy’s mother.
Cassie and Ben were due back tomorrow evening and Venetia very much hoped that they’d had a wonderful few days away. Cassie had sent Venetia a couple of photos of the hotel, and it looked like the perfect getaway destination. Lawrence, her last husband, had often suggested they should book a couple of nights at the famous Art Deco hotel, but they’d never made it. They’d run out of time.
Returning her attention to the job in hand, she delved into the laundry basket and selected a bedsheet to iron next. It was Egyptian cotton and supposedly easy-care which was anathema to Venetia. She didn’t care what anyone said, there was no such thing as iron-free or crease-free when it came to cotton. After spraying the sheet with laundry starch and getting to work, her thoughts returned to what she’d been thinking about before: her marriages. Not by anyone’s standards could she be considered to have been lucky on that score.
Her first had been a colossal error of judgement on her part. She’d married a divorced man with two young children whom he never saw, claiming their mother had poisoned their minds against him. Harold ran an upmarket antique shop on Fulham Road in London – a purveyor of fine antiques was how he’d described himself when she’d met him. She’d been thoroughly taken in by his apparentsavoir faire. That and his Jaguar, the fashionable clubs he took her to and the clothes he lavished on her, including a mink coat. He promised her the world and she believed him. But he’d turned out to be a con man and would have sold his own grandmother if he’d thought he could get away with it. Older than her by almost seventeen years, he called her his queen, and while he loved to show her off whenever they went out, woe betide if she so much as spoke to another man.
She had, it’s worth saying, developed in her late teens from an ugly duckling into something of a swan, or what was deemed a swan back in the sixties when Jean Shrimpton and then Twiggy were all the rage. To her amazement heads turned when she walked into a room, something she never got used to. Her gamine looks attracted the attention of a couple of modelling agencies, but Harold wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t really approve of her continuing with her job as a secretary for an import and export business in Piccadilly.
They’d been married for three years when he was arrested for money laundering and selling stolen goods. Everything he’d ever given her had been stolen. Everything he’d ever said to her had been a lie. Edie Buckle had warned Venetia not to rush into marriage, but she was eighteen and thought she knew best. What eighteen-year-old doesn’t believe that?
She’d fallen for Harold and the dream life he’d sold her (miss-sold her it turned out!) believing it would give her the security she so badly craved. They would build a home together – a conventional home with a husband and wife and maybe a child. But more importantly, it would be a future that would stop her looking over her shoulder at the past and what had happened at Hope Hall.
Harold died in prison after getting into a fight, his temper, flashes of which she’d personally seen and physically experienced, finally getting the better of him. In no hurry to marry again, especially if the man turned out to be anything like Harold, Venetia focused her energy on doing well in her job. She was still working for the same business in Piccadilly which had expanded to include precious and semi-precious gemstones, and she was now the owner’s personal assistant, a role she took great pride in. She would be forever grateful that she’d learnt to type and do shorthand at night school classes.
In 1970 and when she was twenty-five, she met Alan. He wasthe boss’s son who, after going to university and then drifting around Europe (that’s how Mr Bailey referred to his son’s inability to knuckle down) had now decided to join the firm. He was charming, articulate and extremely handsome, and all the women who worked in the offices at S. J. Bailey Ltd. couldn’t take their eyes off him with his sapphire-blue eyes, soft curls of collar-length blond hair and tight trousers, turtleneck sweater and velvet jacket. He was a sight to behold, a breath of fresh air compared to his father and the other two middle-aged men who wore boring suits and ties.
Younger than her by two years, Alan proposed to her a year later. She said no three times before finally accepting. It was after she’d lost the one person in the world who meant everything to her – Edie Buckle – that she agreed to marry Alan. Edie’s death meant the only connection she had with her childhood and the only real home she’d known was gone. Alan had a genuinely caring nature and was so tenderly supportive while she was coping with the loss of dearest Edie, that she cast aside her fear of marrying the wrong man again and agreed to be his wife.
They married on a cold winter’s day at Marylebone Town Hall in 1972 and went on honeymoon to Paris. It was Venetia’s first time abroad and she loved everything she saw. Alan was the perfect guide, taking her round the Louvre and sharing with her his favourite paintings. They stayed in a modestpensionein Montmartre, and she was shocked at some of the sights she saw in nearby Pigalle, but Alan took it all in his stride.
They didn’t consummate their marriage during the honeymoon, Alan claiming he wanted to wait until they were back in London and settled in as newlyweds in the lovely mews property his parents, Wendy and Stephen, had bought for them as a wedding gift. Venetia had been puzzled at his reticence to make love to her in what was known as the city of love. She felt slighted, worried that perhaps Alan didn’t find her sexuallyattractive. They’d been at home for some weeks, and still their marriage hadn’t been consummated, when Alan admitted that he had trouble in that department but promised to see a doctor.
But months later and with her suspicions growing, and having nothing more intimate from him than a few kisses, hugs and hand holding, she asked him to be completely honest with her. He broke down when he confessed to the truth and now it was her turn to comfort him. The strange thing was, she wasn’t shocked. More than likely she had already known deep down that he wasn’t attracted to women. He said he was desperately sorry, that he never meant to hurt her. She believed him. She also believed him when he said he loved her, but as a friend, or a sister.
She knew that he had used her; a wife gave him respectability and effectively a hiding place, but maybe she had used him too. Marrying him had given her security and a more than comfortable lifestyle.
After she’d laid down the rules of how they would proceed, they remained married and lived together in loving and companionable acceptance – he had his discreet ‘friendships’ as they referred to his male companions, and she had the occasional equally discreet affair. In all respects it was a marriage of convenience, but it was cemented with a true bond of trust between them. If there was one thing Venetia knew, it was that a secret bound people together like nothing else.
Following his father’s death, they became even more of a partnership when the two of them took over the running of S. J. Bailey Ltd., changing the name to Bailey & Co International. The firm went from strength to strength throughout the 1970s.
Alan died of AIDS shortly after their thirteenth wedding anniversary and his illness remained a secret between them and the private nursing staff Venetia employed to look after him. His mother, who’d died eighteen months before, never knew ofher son’s illness, which Venetia thought was a blessing: the poor woman would have been heartbroken.
Alan’s death meant that Venetia was now in charge of the business and working all hours she kept it going until she received an offer she would have been foolish to refuse. She signed the contract, ensuring that all existing employees were kept on, and she walked off into the sunset a wealthy woman, now in her fifties.
Lawrence – Husband No. 3, as he always jokingly referred to himself – came into her life on a cruise around South America. She’d never been on a cruise before and had been anxious when she’d boarded the ship in Ushuaia in Argentina whether it was really going to be her cup of tea, but had decided to do it because so many of her friends had told her she’d love it.
She met Lawrence during dinner on her first night onboard. While chatting with him and the other diners around the table, she learnt that he did this kind of holiday two or three times a year, as did many of the other passengers.
She enjoyed his easy-going company and down-to-earth personality and agreed to have dinner alone with him the following evening, and the evening after that. He told her that he was a retired builder, having started out in life as a jobbing brickie in the East End of London but had gone on to set up his own building company. He’d been happily married to just the one woman until seven years ago and while they hadn’t any children of their own, they’d fostered over twenty. He described how their home had been open to any child who’d needed a safe space. His words had touched an unexpected nerve with Venetia, and she’d found herself becoming quite emotional and told him about Hope Hall.
When they were back in England in their respective homes, she in London, and he in Essex, they met up on a regular basis and six months after meeting, not only had they been on anothercruise together and shared a suite, Lawrence asked her to move in with him. She hesitated. She liked her house in Richmond. She liked her independence. She’d been single for so long, and had become quite selfish in her ways, doing precisely what she wanted and when. But being with Lawrence was such fun and she found she genuinely enjoyed sharing her life with him. She was now in her late sixties and he a couple of years younger, so why not share the rest of her life with him?
But instead of just living together, they took the plunge and tied the knot. Why hang about at their age, they decided.
Looking back on it, those precious few years spent with Lawrence were some of the most enjoyable she’d experienced. It had been a refreshingly care-free time. Perfect in fact. But then Lawrence died of a heart attack. There’d been no warning signs, nothing to indicate his heart was about to give out. The suddenness of his death was the worst part; if she’d had time to prepare, she would have coped better, or so she believed.
It was after Lawrence’s funeral that she had acquired Bon-Bon. The puppy had instantly given her some much-needed comfort and had helped to fill the huge gap in her life; he had given her a purpose and sense of routine.
Lawrence had left her his large, rambling Grade II cottage which he had beautifully renovated. It was far too big for her on her own and then one day, while at the hairdresser and flicking through an out-of-date magazine, and glancing idly at the property pages, she had spotted Hope Hall. Amazingly the place had been converted into apartments and there was one yet to be sold.
